


The Dazzle of the Light

by Snabulous



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera - Gaston Leroux, Phantom of the Opera (2004), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber
Genre: Bisexual Christine, Character Study, Disabled Christine, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Lesbian Meg, Past Christine/Erik, Past Christine/Raoul, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Trauma, could be mutual pining but we only see meg’s pov so who knowwwws, idk i just get romantic when i think gay thoughts, ignores the fate of the opera house, vaguely purple prose
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-16
Updated: 2021-02-16
Packaged: 2021-03-18 01:20:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29481342
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Snabulous/pseuds/Snabulous
Summary: Meg has known Christine for a long time. From the ballet dormitories to the stage, Meg was there. And she was there afterward, too, to help pick up the pieces.ALW inspired.
Relationships: Christine Daaé/Meg Giry
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	The Dazzle of the Light

Long enough have you dream’d contemptible dreams,

Now I wash the gum from your eyes,

You must have yourself to the dazzle of the light and of every moment of your life.

  
Long have you timidly waded holding a plank by the shore,  


Now I will you to be a bold swimmer,

To jump off in the midst of the sea, rise again, nod to me, shout, and laughingly dash your hair.

  
Walt Whitman, _Song of Myself_ , stanza 46  


* * *

Meg had known Christine for a very long time. Not as long as Raoul, but long enough that that doesn’t matter. They were fourteen, fifteen maybe, when they met, just after the death of Christine’s father. She was still raw then, an open wound that Meg couldn’t begin to know how to heal. Meg was still a child, after all, and what child truly knows how to help someone like that?

But she tried, and Christine seemed grateful at least. If Meg didn’t have the right words, then she at least had her narrow bed in the ballet dormitories, the covers flipped open to admit Christine when the darkness closed around her a little too tightly, and her skinny little arms to wrap around her.

Meg remembered the first time they slept together in one of those little beds, the way she heard Christine’s shaky sobs, muffled into her pillow. Christine had only been at the opera house for a few weeks, and Meg didn’t know her well at all. She lay there for what felt like a thousand years, trying to decide what to do, if she should do anything at all. But eventually, she couldn’t stand it anymore; the sound was just too painful to listen to.

Meg crept out of her bed, her bare, pale feet touching the ground silently. She froze, listening for signs that any of the other girls could hear her, but no one except Christine seemed to be awake.

She slipped through the rows of beds, glancing at the names scrawled on signs at the end of each one. Jammes… Evanna… Lorelei… Giselle… Lucille… and finally Christine.

The thing that stuck out most to Meg - the thing she remembered the strongest from that night - was how still Christine was. If she hadn’t been crying, Meg would’ve thought she was dead. Indeed, the little sobs and pitiful sniffles were the only sign that Christine was still alive; even her breathing was too shallow to create a rise and fall of her sheets.

Meg hesitantly reached out her hand and put it on Christine’s shoulder, and it was like a spell had been broken. Christine’s head snapped up, her eyes and nose red from crying. At first, she didn’t say anything, but she had the look of a child getting caught doing something they weren't supposed to be. Fear, a little guilt.

“Sorry, Christine, I-”

“Meg, I didn’t-”

They both stopped. Then, Christine sniffled and continued, “I’m sorry Meg, I didn’t mean to wake you up. I’ll be quieter, I’m sorry.”

As she said it, more tears formed in her eyes, and Meg could tell Christine was moments away from breaking down again.

“Shh, no,” Meg whispered, kneeling at the side of the bed, her slim little hand on Christine’s tear-stained face. “You can cry, don’t apologize. It’s alright.”

And she did. Tears spilled from Christine’s eyes, punctuated by little whimpers and hiccups, and Meg stayed there, stroking Christine’s dark curls the same way Meg’s mother did when she was inconsolable about one thing or another. They sat like that for a long time, Meg’s knees aching from her position on the floor, until Christine’s eyes drifted shut. Her pillow was soaked by that point, and even in sleep, tears still leaked from her delicately closed eyelids.

Meg stayed at Christine’s bedside for a while longer. Her heart ached for this girl, and it hurt even further that she didn’t know if she could make any of it better. If Christine would even want her to.

When Meg finally took her hand away and straightened up, Christine didn’t move. Her breathing was deep and even, and that made Meg feel a little better. She went back to her own bed. It was cold now, so she curled into herself to try and warm up, her tired thoughts full of Christine.

Just when Meg was beginning to despair that it was too cold to sleep, something lightly touched her shoulder. She sat up instantly, and she was met by Christine, her red-rimmed eyes mere inches away. She looked hesitant, apologetic even, and Meg tilted her head, questioning.

“Can I… sleep here? With you?” Christine asked, her voice rough and just loud enough for Meg to hear it.

Meg moved over the tiny amount of space that she could, kicking back the covers to let her in. Christine gingerly lay down, and Meg pulled the blankets over the two of them.

It was much warmer now, with another person so near. Christine was turned inwards, facing directly towards Meg. They were so close that Meg could feel the warmth radiating from Christine. Their knees brushed against each other, and their hands were just centimeters apart.

Meg’s heart pounded in her ears.

But Christine seemed relaxed, and she fell asleep quickly. For fear of waking her, Meg stayed still, her body tensed like a violin string tuned too tightly. She wasn’t sure why she was reacting this way, but some part of her was amazed and in awe that something like this was even happening. 

Eventually, she too drifted into a light sleep, but it felt like she had just barely closed her eyes when Madame Giry shook her awake the next morning with an unreadable expression to greet her.

After that incident, Christine crawled into Meg's bed most nights, even after she stopped crying so frequently. During the day, they stuck by each other’s side and whispered privately in between plies. Meg felt like they missed a step somewhere, going from near-strangers to close friends in a single night, but she didn’t mind it.

Through their years in the ballet, the other girls took note of Meg and Christine’s closeness and, in little tittering spats of jealousy, made fun of them. The more malicious of them threw around hissed accusations of deviancy before being shut down with incredulous hushes from their friends. Christine never saw the point in such words - those girls had friends too, didn’t they? - but Christine always was a little naive. The other girls saw the moon-eyed way Meg looked at Christine, hard though she tried to hide it, and the way that she had a special smile that she only ever seemed to give to Christine.

They spent their teenage years that way, with Meg only just restraining her affections and Christine unknowingly fueling the fire simply by being there and seeking Meg out above the others.

And then, the Angel of Music happened.

Meg would never be sure exactly when it started, but she remembered Christine withdrawing in a way she never had before. She became reserved, quiet, and for the first time since they had met, there was something Christine wasn’t telling Meg. Something had come between them, holding Christine back and leaving Meg feeling abandoned. Left out. She worried that Christine was outgrowing her, outgrowing the dormitories of the opera house. Some of the others already had, so why not Christine, too? They couldn’t all stay dancers forever, in the end.

“It’s only voice lessons,” Christine used to say, her voice soothing enough to placate Meg until the next time. But Meg never really believed her. She couldn’t, not when Christine’s smiles didn’t reach her eyes.

The voice lessons were undoubtedly real, though. Meg heard Christine sing, and she saw the rapture in her face, even when she was merely practicing. Perhaps that is why Meg never tried to intervene; whatever was going on, it fulfilled some part of Christine’s soul that Meg wouldn’t dare harm in a thousand years.

For a long time, Meg felt like she was holding her breath. Waiting for something to happen. She tried to continue supporting Christine - she was in love, after all - but Christine seemed too disengaged, too checked out, to do much more than practice singing and ballet and sleep. Her mind was focused solely on something else that Meg couldn’t be a part of, couldn’t even know about. It pained her to watch, helpless as she was.

When Meg encouraged Christine to sing for the new managers, she thought she was finally, finally helping. Looking back on it now, she wasn’t sure if things would have been different if she hadn’t said anything, hadn’t all but forced Christine in front of the managers. The Phantom would have put Christine on the stage of the Opera Populaire one way or another. Perhaps Meg caused the least violent outcome? It was a small, hypothetical comfort.

But there was no way for her to know, not now, not ever. She should stop thinking so much about the past. That’s what she and Christine told each other constantly, both of them knowing they never would.

The past took up too much space to forget.

Once, Christine told Meg everything that happened to her. It was a long time ago, now, but Meg still remembered every detail. After the affair at the Opera Populaire, it took Christine a few months to even talk to Meg again - or to anyone, really - but that night was… memorable.

Christine had shown up on Meg’s doorstep, seemingly out of nowhere. It was the coldest part of the year, but she wasn’t shivering despite her thin cloak.

Meg, of course, ushered her inside instantly without even thinking to ask questions. She silently followed Meg into her cramped sitting room, taking in every useless knick knack and half-read book with those wide brown eyes of hers. Meg had half a mind to be self-conscious, but Christine shared a living space with her for years; she knew what Meg was like.

Meg brushed aside some overstuffed throw pillows to make room for Christine on her little couch. Christine sat down on the edge, and that was what finally tipped Meg off. What had happened? What was Christine so nervous about?

“I’m not asking this because I don’t want you here,” Meg prefaced, trying to sound delicate, “but… what are you doing here, Christine?”

Christine, her eyes still carefully guarded, drew her cloak around herself. Meg had forgotten to take it when she came in, but she seemed to need it even more than when she was out in the cold.

“Meg,” Christine said, “I am sorry for not speaking to you for so long. You are my closest friend, and it was wrong for me to leave you that way.”

That was not what Meg had been expecting. She wasn’t sure what it was exactly that she thought Christine was going to say, but it certainly wasn’t that.

When Meg didn’t respond, Christine continued. “Before everything that happened at the Opera Populaire and even during it, when no one wanted to be around me anymore, you were always there.” She finally looked at Meg. Her expression was so serious that it sent an arrow of panic into Meg’s chest. Where was this going?

“You’ve done so much for me throughout the years I’ve known you,” Christine said. “I hope I have done the same for you.”

Meg blinked. “What? Of course you have. There’s never been anyone like you, Christine.”

Christine smiled at that, but she seemed saddened. As though hearing that had touched something inside that caused her pain. Meg wouldn’t stand for it.

“What’s going on Christine?” she questioned. Oh, God, did she sound upset? “Where’s Raoul? Did something happen to him?”

Christine sat up straighter. “Oh, no, nothing of the sort, Meg. Raoul is fine. Perhaps a little heartbroken, now, but he will live, I’m sure.”

“What do you mean?”

Christine began to roll a loose thread in her cloak between her fingers. “It isn’t really done. It’s not meant to be done, anyway.”

Meg just stared, unblinking.

“We were going to elope,” Christine continued as if forcing the words out, “but I kept putting it off. And then we’d waited too long, and Raoul wanted to have a real ceremony to please his family.”

“Why didn’t you?” Meg almost felt bad asking, but she couldn’t stop herself.

Christine sighed and hunched her shoulders. She opened her mouth and started to speak, but the words died in her throat. Meg watched her take several deep breaths. Her shoulders did not rise as she did so, only her stomach expanding. Meg was gratified to see at least that one thing from her time as a singer had not left her, at least one thing that had not abandoned her. She still breathed like a singer, so perhaps she would be okay.

But as comforting as that was, the expression on Christine’s face did not inspire the same feeling. Her face was scrunched up, her eyes dark and shining with despair.

“Christine...?” Meg leaned forward and placed her hand on Christine’s knee.

“I-” she started to say, but she couldn’t get out another word before a sob wracked through her entire body. She shrunk in on herself, clutching her arms to her chest. Meg hadn’t heard Christine cry like that since her early days in the ballet.

Meg slipped off the couch, her own eyes filling with tears, crying for the pain in her heart at the sight of her darling friend in such a state. Just as she had that night so many years ago, she fell to her knees before Christine and held her cheek, brushing away tears with her thumb.

“Christine, no, I’m so sorry, Christine,” Meg babbled through her tears. _I should have been there for her; I should have known she would be in so much pain. I’m so sorry, please forgive me, Christine._

“I couldn’t marry him,” Christine choked out. “I don’t know why, I don’t know, I just couldn’t-”

A hiccup cut off her frantic words and left her unable to speak again. Meg hid her face in the folds of Christine’s skirts. She couldn’t look at her any longer; it hurt too much.

Meg felt almost ill. Christine was supposed to get her happy ending with Raoul. It wasn’t fair, not after all the pain she had been through; Christine _had_ to be happy. Meg didn’t care who it was with, if anyone all. She just had to be happy.

When Christine’s well of tears finally seemed to dry up, the sun had lowered beyond the horizon. The last vestiges of light sent dramatic shadows across Meg’s sitting room.

Meg finally gathered the courage to look up. As she did, she found Christine looking down at her, too. Christine sniffed pitifully.

“Oh, Christine,” Meg lamented. “What happened to you?”

Christine closed her eyes and took a breath. And another. Steadying herself.

And then she started talking.

At first it was difficult to listen. Every time she mentioned Raoul, she had to pause and breathe to keep from bursting into tears. It hurt Meg to know she was experiencing such heartbreak. And even more difficult was the subject of the Phantom. Christine spoke with such admiration, such fear about the Phantom - _Erik_ , Christine told her, whispering as though afraid and hopeful that by evoking that name she would summon the man himself - that Meg shuddered. She knew, they both knew, that Christine would be affected by him for the rest of her life, in all of the beautiful and horrible ways she possibly could be.

Christine skimmed over parts that Meg knew about, and Meg felt a knot in her chest every time she did. She had been so close to all of this, but a thin layer of silk kept her from seeing the nightmare. If she had asked Christine a question here, sat by her side there, maybe none of it would have ever happened. Maybe. Or at least, Christine would have felt less alone throughout it all.

Meg vowed, as Christine tearfully recounted her final goodbye to Erik, that she would never let Christine feel alone again, as long as they both lived, as long as Christine would have her.

“I don’t know what happened to him,” Christine said, her voice rough. “I very likely never will.”

She looked up at Meg, her eyes suddenly dancing with a sort of sardonic humor that pinched at Meg’s heart. “Is it horrible of me to wonder where he is? I left him utterly scorned; I left him there, and still part of me wants to see him again or at least know if he’s still alive.”

Meg searched her darling friend’s face. She didn’t know what she was looking for. Then, slowly, “No. It isn’t horrible.”

Christine let out a sigh and shook her head. “Perhaps someday I’ll feel that way, too.”

Meg looked down at Christine’s lap. At some point in the story, she had taken Christine’s hands in her own, rested them there, or perhaps Christine had taken hers. She couldn’t remember which.

Christine’s hands were cold, as if she had just come in from outside again.

Meg looked back up. “And what about Raoul? You said you couldn’t marry him. Does he...know?”

It was stupid to say it like that. But Christine answered her with a bitter laugh and said, “Yes, he knows. It would take a miracle for him to ever speak to me again after our last conversation.”

“Oh.”

Christine took her hands away from Meg, gingerly but resolute. Then, she stood, straightened her skirt, and lifted Meg up by her arms. “I… should go now,” she said, sounding awkward for the first time since they were little teenagers just getting to know each other.

“ _What_? Why?”

“I’ve imposed on you long enough,” Christine replied, taking hold of one of Meg’s hands in both of hers. “It’s already well past dark.”

“Yes, that’s precisely why you shouldn’t leave,” Meg insisted, taking their clasped hands with her free one and holding it to her chest. “Where would you even go?”

Christine looked indignant but vaguely embarrassed. “There are hotels in Paris, Meg.”

Rolling her eyes, Meg countered, “I know that. I meant where, after tonight?”

“Oh. Well.” Christine softened. “I wasn’t quite sure yet. I thought about going back to Sweden, but it’s been so long since I’ve lived there…”

Meg tightened her grip on Christine’s hands. Sweden. So far away for her darling friend to go. She wouldn’t stop her if she really wanted to leave, but.

She bit the inside of her cheek. Then, she tentatively said, “Well… you could stay here.”

Christine froze. Meg knew she was in it deep, too late to turn back, so she barrelled forward.

“There’s only one bedroom, but my bed is large enough to share like we used to, or at least I could sleep on the couch - I wouldn’t mind it really, I do it all the time anyway - and we’re close to the opera house if you ever wanted to sing again, they would be delighted to have you, and even if you didn’t, the apartment is paid for as a part of my mother’s contract, so it wouldn’t be a financial burden, and-”

“Meg.”

Her frantic rambling tumbled to a stop. “Yes?”

“You would let me stay here? Christine asked, her eyes wide. “With you?”

Meg tilted her head. “Of course. You’re my best friend. You’re important to me, probably the most important person in my life. You’re welcome here for as long as you like. Forever if you want.”

“Oh.” Meg could see the wheels turning in her head, processing what Meg had just said. Heat spread across Meg’s cheeks. Oh, dear. Was she too obvious? Did Christine have her all figured out now? She wouldn’t be surprised. Meg never was good at hiding her feelings.

But if she knew anything, Christine didn’t say a word about it. She just let a little smile play on her perfect lips and said, “Thank you.”

And then she hugged Meg, their skirts rustling as they met.

“You… you’re... staying?” Meg whispered, staring straight at the wall. Something in her brain sparked and ground to a halt as she tried to remember how to form coherent sentences.

Meg felt a breathy laugh against her chest as Christine held her tighter.

“Yes, I’m staying.”

Meg let herself relax. Christine wasn’t going anywhere. She was going to stay right here, and Meg was going to stay here too. They’d be together, just like they used to be.

Well.

The tender skin around her eyes still burned from crying, and her nose was running. Perhaps it would not be exactly the way things used to be. But Meg would take anything, any little drop of Christine’s presence over none. This was infinitely more than she’d ever deserved.

Meg rested her chin on Christine’s shoulder, feeling gratified as the chill on Christine’s skin slowly disappeared into the warmth of her own. She let her eyes slip closed and relished the feeling. The soft, velvety fabric of Christine’s cloak brushed against Meg’s skin, and she thought absently that she should let Christine take it off sometime soon. It would get too warm in here for her eventually. But perhaps in a bit, when they’ve finished hugging…

Meg’s eyes shot open.

“Christine!” she exclaimed. “I forgot!”

Christine looked at Meg, eyes wide and tinged with a little fear. “What? What is it?”

“I forgot to offer you tea when you came in! I can’t believe I’m such a terrible host.”

Christine’s serious expression split, and she laughed. “Don’t scare me like that. I thought you were going to tell me something horrible had happened.”

And on that night, Christine found a home with Meg. It only took a few days for them to settle in, to get used to each other after months apart. Meg joked that it was the benefit of having spent so much time together already, but Christine always countered sincerely that they were just meant to be this way. Meg loved it when she said that. Christine was more withdrawn, introspective than she once was, but she would say little things like that, and Meg knew that was still the Christine she’d loved for years.

It did not take long for their friendship to progress. Meg was never good at hiding her feelings. When one morning, a few months later, Meg accidentally let out a dreamy, “I love you,” after watching Christine perfectly, gracefully, flip a fried egg, it felt only natural for Christine to lean over and plant a kiss on the corner of her mouth. Meg froze, reeling for all of half a second, before a slow smile crept over her face. Christine, still catching up with herself, pulled back, only to immediately return, and kiss her again.

Meg, suddenly overtaken by her teenage self, laughed against Christine’s soft mouth and grasped at her hand. Christine dropped the utensil she was holding to thread her fingers into Meg’s curls, lightly holding the side of her head.

It was warm, kissing Christine. Not like fire - nothing about Christine was much like fire, burning and passion and smoke - but like waking up in bed with a heavy comforter on top of you or taking that first sip of coffee and feeling it warm your entire body. Fire could burn itself out or scorch the hands of those who tried to touch it, but this was not that. It was comforting and felt like home, and Meg never wanted it to end.

And it didn’t, even when Christine pulled away. “The eggs are going to burn,” she said, playful.

“Let them,” Meg replied, ghosting her lips over Christine’s cheek.

Christine took a step back, her dark eyes glinting, and disentangled her fingers from Meg’s hair. She retrieved the discarded utensil from the ground. When she straightened, Meg thought she looked as though she had something to say. She had a strange expression, something like a smile but too contemplative to be joyful.

“I love you, too, Meg,” Christine said, and she kissed Meg’s cheek, then turned back to the stovetop. 

Meg stood still in the middle of their kitchen, staring in awe at the back of Christine’s head.

When Meg was a teenager, she resigned herself to what she thought was her fate. What she wanted, it just wasn’t done. It wasn’t acceptable, and the jabs from her fellow ballerinas had driven that home. But here Christine was, blushing to the roots of her hair after kissing Meg and telling her that she loved her.

A little smile on her face, Meg drifted back to her place leaning against the cool stone counter. Watching Christine make breakfast, studying the lines of her face and the curl of her hair. The way she glanced at Meg and seemed to grow flustered every time, with that beautiful, perfect smile flickering in and out.

If Meg could only have this one day with Christine, she would have been satisfied. But to her delight, Christine kissed her again the next morning. And then that afternoon, and that evening, many times that evening.

It was like magic - a miracle beyond anything Meg believed she deserved.

They lived in that little apartment for years, quietly loving each other and deflecting uncomfortable questions as to when they were going to find some nice men and settle down.

Meg still danced, training to eventually take over her mother’s position as choreographer for the corps de ballet. Christine slowly followed Meg back to the Opera Populaire, hesitantly at first, but taking small singing parts here and there. She never performed as much as she once did, but she was wholly content to stay out of the spotlight. It made her sad to sing, she told Meg one night after a particularly emotional performance, and it left her physically exhausted to the point that she needed to recover for multiple days afterward. Meg knew why. She could hear it in Christine’s voice when she sang; as beautiful as her voice always was, as much as Christine adored doing it, there was something missing that she once had. Remembering that loss, especially in the very place it occurred, would drain anyone.

It saddened Meg to know that Christine would never be the prima donna she used to dream of being, but Christine had accepted it, and Meg knew she needed to do the same.

But still, watching Christine become bedridden after playing even the smallest roles pained Meg. After rehearsals, Meg would bring Christine home and let her rest, and she would usually have the energy for the next day’s rehearsal, but performances seemed to draw the life from Christine like a siphon. She would get a faraway look in her eyes that lasted for days, only having the energy to eat and sleep, occasionally turning a few pages in a book, before slowly recovering enough to putter about their apartment.

“Because of you,” Christine said to Meg, “I can still sing. I would be lost without you.” And then, she kissed Meg’s palm, which was still warm from the cup of tea she just handed to Christine.

Moments like that were what Meg lived for. It was proof that she made Christine happy, that she could return some of the joy that Christine gave to her.

That proof was all Meg ever needed, even as she knew that Christine’s heart did not belong to her. Christine was far beyond allowing others ownership of her heart, though her soul remained attached to those who once laid claim to it. There was a red string of admiration, love, and fear trailing all the way to wherever Erik ended up. And Raoul, too, was connected to her with a string of gratefulness and stilted affection, even if it were not enough for her to marry him. No, Raoul wanted too much of her, and he wanted to hold her in his hands as a possession, for her to do the same with him. After so narrowly escaping total possession, she was not keen on jumping into the hands of another. Yet the connection remained, even as years separated them.

Meg somehow never begrudged these connections. She thought, at first, that she would, as she had long dreamed of someone who loved her only, who would tie themself to her and no one else. But with Christine, Meg saw that total ownership, however mutual, cannot be. The past can never leave, and, in her way, Christine loved Erik and Raoul, and who was Meg to dictate the people Christine could and could not care for?

Besides, Meg had her own string.

They were always so near to each other that sometimes Meg felt as though she could see it, real and tangible as the dark curls that splayed across Christine’s pillow at night. It was a string of commitment, love, and gentle adoration that Meg knew was unlike any other. She was different; Christine had chosen her. They would never be able to marry, but marriage is nothing but a symbol. It is a declaration to the world: “I love this person, and I am going to spend the rest of my life with them!”

But neither Christine nor Meg needed declarations. Christine, for one, had had enough of them to last a lifetime. And Meg… Well.

Christine was beside her. Asleep with a book still loosely held in her hand and her head resting against Meg’s shoulder. Why would she need to shout from the rooftops, “I love Christine Daaé,” when she could have this? The rest of the world did not deserve to know of their love.

Because they weren’t safe, as much as they felt that they were sometimes.

They installed a small second bed in the sitting room after a strained visit from one of their old ballet friends. Neither of them ever used it, but they felt it might make people less suspicious. They knew it wasn’t enough.

The only person who knew the true nature of their relationship was Meg’s mother. Madame Giry was too observant to let anything slip past her, particularly anything to do with her daughter. The moment that Meg told her mother that Christine was living permanently with her, Madame Giry pinned her to the wall with her gaze and demanded to know what their plan was to keep themselves free from suspicion.

Meg floundered when asked that, but she and Christine did, in fact, have a plan. Following the dissolution of her engagement to Raoul, Christine found herself alone, and no matter her feelings for Erik, the terror of that period of her life had left a permanent scar. She needed someone to be with her, to help her, to calm her nightmares, and remind her that she was not wrapped in the heavy woolen cloak draped over her by the angel of music in that dark, dark place, but rather she was tangled in her own sheets in her own bed in her own home. Meg was not lying when she told her mother that. 

But Madame Giry saw past her careful omissions and merely said, “Be careful, child. Christine’s popularity and my position in the Opera Populaire may gain you some protection, but not enough.”

No, not enough.

So every movement had to be made carefully. Excuses had to be made delicately, deliberately. Christine could never marry, of course she couldn’t. Do you not see how weak she becomes when she sings? Imagine her running a household. No, no, no, better for her to stay with dear little devoted Meg, who sacrificed everything, including a husband, so Christine could be taken care of.

Play up the caretaker role, convince everyone it was the only way. Hope that no one saw through it or began to poke holes in their carefully crafted desceptions.

But the waxing and waning fear of discovery was worth it for the comfort they gave each other, it was worth it for the way Meg’s smaller frame fit perfectly around Christine’s as they slept. For the way they danced together in their sitting room, Christine’s high voice very quietly accompanying their slow, easy movements. Every sleepy breakfast and every languid afternoon and every single kiss made it worth it.

Remembering the way they began, Meg often marveled at how they came to be where they ended up. Every event led them to here; each mistake and misstep only brought them closer to this moment. Every horrible thing in each of their lives set them on the path that ended here. Here, waking up with a streak of sunshine across Christine’s face that turned her brown eyes into pools of gold and a gentle kiss Meg pressed into Christine’s throat in lieu of a “good morning.”

Here.

**Author's Note:**

> the walt whitman quote at the beginning just screams "christine" at me. i think it's a little more... i dunno upbeat? than this story ended up being, but what is moving on, what is being "a bold swimmer" if not choosing to live how you want to live? what is freedom but singing, unfettered by the chains of fear, and going home with your lover afterward to have a cup of tea in bed? memories may be impossible to escape completely, but the present is here and waiting to be lived.
> 
> anyway, talk to me about phantom!! my tumblr is @snabulous :)


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